


Leave the Wine Glass Out, And Drink A Toast To Never

by HarveyWallbanger



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: M/M, a meditation on desires both conscious and subconscious, disguised as a simple story about two dudes having sex on a desk that belongs to neither of them, it's also an excuse to use a lot of spooky ghost imagery, more like mind-fuck lite, not really a mind-fuck, the heart is a haunted house
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-09 17:19:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3258071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What's a guy like Jim doing in a place like this?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leave the Wine Glass Out, And Drink A Toast To Never

**Author's Note:**

> This is, of course, not how the scene between Jim and Oswald went in "Welcome Back, Jim Gordon". But it's how I like to imagine it ending.  
> The title of this story comes from the song, After Hours, by the Velvet Underground- just like the last story I wrote. I look on this one as a companion piece, I guess, to that one. Two different fantasies revolving around the same reality.  
> I am not involved in the production of Gotham, and this school is not involved in the production of Gotham. No one pays me to do this. Do not try any of this at home. Thank you, and good night.

If he ever doubted the existence of the living dead, Jim's having doubts about his doubts. This place- he looks around- it's like the dessicated corpse of a bordello reanimated by some mood lighting and a wind-up band. He's been here before- why is he just noticing, now? How depressing it truly is.  
“I'm going to go,” he says to himself as much as to Oswald.  
The eyes widen, and the mouth stretches itself into the stylized 'O' of a cartoon ghost. “No, no,” Oswald all but pants, “Please. Please stay. Please,” he puts his hands on the table, flutters his fingers, raises himself to his feet. Swaying, he holds up a finger, “Please. Just wait.”  
Jim frowns, but sits as he lets Oswald shuffle over to the big man moving his mother from side to side. He says something to each of them; embraces his mother for so long that Jim has to look away, before peeling her arms off of him; dismisses the band.  
“Again- so nice to meet you.” Mrs. Kapelput swoons toward Jim's table before being drawn up by her minder. A wave of her perfume rises up into his face like a slap. “Oswald's always had trouble making friends. Be good to him.”  
She's steered out into the vestibule, her giggle voluminous, rolling through the space, hanging like a ghost, itself, in the bar, as Oswald returns, sits down next to him.  
“Champagne?” he asks, gesturing toward Jim's untouched glass.  
“No. Thank you.”  
“Oh, come on. Live a little. It's very good,” Oswald adds, looking pathetically hopeful, so Jim sighs and takes a sip.  
“What do you want?”  
“What do I want?” Oswald laughs, places a hand in the center of his chest like he's fucking Scarlett O'Hara. “Can't we just enjoy each other's company?”  
“You don't do anything without a reason. What do you want?” The words come out painfully, like splinters extracted from living flesh.  
“I promise you- I have no ulterior motives.”  
“If you're going to lie to me, I'm leaving.” He stands.  
“No!”  
The strength of that 'no' makes Jim start. He feels his mouth open, closes it. He sits down again.  
“Please. Please. Just stay. You came all this way...” Oswald smiles, shows what seems like too many teeth, the softly: “Just, please. Stay a little longer.”  
“Tell me why.”  
“Why?” Helpless laughter.  
“Why.” But what does Jim care? Whatever the answer's going to be, it's going to be some weird, incomprehensible shit, just another bizarre turn in whatever game Oswald is playing, and-  
And not a day goes by that Jim doesn't regret not blowing out Oswald's brains when he had the chance.  
This is wrong. This whole place- the old lady swaying alone to the band; the columns and the velvet wallpaper; the dimmed lights; Oswald, himself. It's like biting into an apple and finding the wet undulation of half a worm.  
It's a life unnaturally prolonged. If Jim is here, somehow unable to dislodge himself, even though every nerve in his body is cringing with revulsion, it's because he made it so. If he's here, it's because he spared that life, let it continue, when it should have ended. What else has he made possible? They say that when you save someone's life, you own them, but, no, it's they who somehow end up owning you. What has its claws in Jim, now- for the rest of his life?  
Oswald murmurs something; he might as well be underwater.  
“I'm sorry, what was that?” Jim hears himself rasp. A clap of thunder on a storming sea.  
“I just like you,” Oswald repeats, even more softly than the first time, but Jim is listening, now.  
“This is sick,” Jim says, shakes his head.  
“I can't help it,” Oswald snaps, crossing his arms over his chest.  
“No,” Jim shakes his head again, gently, evenly says: “Not that. I mean,” he looks around, “This. You, owning this place. What did you do?”  
Oswald gives himself a prim little shake. “What I had to,” he purses his lips, sticks out his chin, “Just like you do, I'm sure.”  
“I don't want to know.”  
“I think you do. I think you want to know all about me, and my business, because you're a part of it. Whether you like it, or not. You saved my life, Jim; that makes all of this yours, too.”  
Is he a fucking mind-reader? Or does it just show, somehow, everything Jim thinks and feels? Is that why people keep pushing him, but in just the right way, to make him do all of these things that he's thought about, but of course never actually wanted to do. Until the action was right there, happening around him, and if it was already happening, then he could only fulfill his role, helpless, a character in a play long-ago written. “I'm leaving,” he says, for- what?- the third time?  
“Stay,” Oswald says, very softly. He brings himself to his feet, so that he's next to Jim, who stood without realizing it.  
“What do you want?”  
He needs to go.  
Toward what?  
Barbara is gone- maybe never to return, and Jim is flattened by the weight of her absence, but he's also relieved of a different one. She wanted to share his life, but he's not ready to perform the examination of the contents necessary to divide them. If he looked, would he find anything he truly wanted to keep? Lesley- he can't think about her right now. Not with Oswald in front of him- standing so close to him, like Lesley was- playing out now with Jim an unsettling reenactment. To Harvey, to work- but Harvey has his secrets, and Jim doesn't want anything to do with them, no more than he wants anything to do with his own.  
And here's another.  
Oswald comes in close, eyelids falling like stage curtains, and Jim recoils, but puts out his hands, lays them on Oswald's arms, holds him, there, but doesn't push him away.  
“I'm not kissing you.”  
Oswald blinks. “Fine.”  
Jim regards the ceiling. “Is there an office or a back room in this place?”  
“Yes. Yes, of course.”  
“Why the fuck am I doing this?”  
Oswald smiles, and it's- what the fuck is it? If it were anyone else, it'd look shy and sweet, but on him, the expression is out of place, sinister. Jim wants to slap that look off of his face. If he did, would Oswald mind so much? “Because you realize that this is bigger than both of us.”  
“You're out of your fucking mind.”  
“It's the effect you have on me.” Oswald grabs him by the wrist and tugs, and Jim lets himself be guided through the guts of the place to what he can only assume used to be Fish Mooney's office. Oswald perches on the edge of the desk, swings his legs, runs his hands over the papers Fish must have left behind, crumples them between his fingers.  
“Lock the door.”  
With a huff, Oswald gets up again, locks the door.  
“What do you want to do to me?” Oswald gets out before Jim knocks him against the door, hears it tremble on its hinges. Without thinking, he kisses Oswald, makes a face at the reek of the alcohol sweating out of him- how much has Oswald had to drink?- forces himself to push past that. And the scent of older sweat, still. And the traces of Oswald's mother's perfume. Fits his hand under Oswald's jaw and tilts his head back, pushes his tongue into Oswald's mouth. Shoves his shoulders against the door, hears it rattle again. The call of a wandering ghost.  
Oswald sort of gasps, in- surprise?- shock?- pain?- and just as automatically, Jim takes his hands off of him, backs away.  
“Why did you stop?”  
“I thought I hurt you.”  
Oswald laughs. “You're such a gentleman. That's one of the things I like about you.”  
“Stop it.”  
Oswald holds up his hands- fingers spread like those of a bank robber in an old movie caught by the coppers. “All right. I won't say anything else. Please. Come back. Please let me make you happy.”  
Now, Jim laughs, bitterness rising up through him, sharpening all of the other things he already feels.  
“Let me try, at least.”  
He doesn't say anything, just presses Oswald up against the wall next to the door. Oswald gasps like he did before, and again when Jim puts his hand between Oswald's legs, squeezes.  
“Is that what you like?”  
“Yes.” Oswald rubs himself into Jim's palm, and Jim  
should have left a long time ago.  
He's not going anywhere. He undoes Oswald's pants, slips his hand inside, feels Oswald's hips jerk. Oswald's holding onto him, hands wrapped up in Jim's clothes, making a sound somewhere between a yelp and a sob. He's wet, sticky, on Jim's fingers when Jim gives him an exploratory caress, and so hard it must be painful. The tightness between his own legs has not escaped Jim's notice, and he could be easy on himself, attribute it to the ungraceful, unlovely mechanics of blood flow, or to some gross psychological defect- but he's just too fucking tired to care. Oswald is dripping into his hand, and clutching him for dear life, and he won't stop making those sounds, and somewhere in the midst of the ridiculous and the grotesque, it just feels too fucking good. The press of Oswald's body against his, that bag of bones and ragged breaths and desperately soft kisses. That bundle of rot and horror that belongs to Jim- ever-more with each stroke of his hand.  
It doesn't take long. It wouldn't. With Oswald probably so turned-on he could barely move the second Jim walked through the door, wound-up so tight in his little haunted house with his fellow ghosts, desperate to taste something of life. He spills all over himself, all over Jim's hand, thankfully contained by his clothing. He's gasping Jim's name. A voice in a room you thought was empty.  
“Okay,” Jim sighs, like he's consoling him. “Okay,” he says to Oswald's open mouth and his soft gaze, frowns, and carefully pulls his hand out of Oswald's underwear. “Do you have a tissue, or something?” He's definitely not looking at his hand.  
“I could lick it clean.”  
“What?”  
“I could lick it clean.”  
“Wha- No. No. What is wrong with you?”  
“Nothing,” Oswald mutters, pouting, and pulls a handkerchief from his pocket. Handing it to Jim, he turns away, puts himself back together.  
He turns again, looks down at Jim wiping his hand. “What do you want me to do? Anything. Just, just tell me.”  
“I can't do this.” He tosses the handkerchief into the trashcan by the desk.  
“Yes, you can. Please. Please let me.”  
He doesn't protest further as Oswald again takes his place with his back to the wall, pulls Jim in close to him. His hands are on Jim's hips, waiting for direction. He's looking at Jim from under the fringe of his too-long eyelashes, looking at his body, with so much hunger, Jim has to look away. How does someone get to be like this?  
“Just, here, come on,” he says, tilts up Oswald's head, leans down, and kisses him. He wasn't going to do this. Why the fuck is he doing this? Again. Now that he's settled down a little, Oswald's easier to manage, to touch and to hold. Not a bag of bones, but a living body; too thin, but warm and trembling. His mouth is soft and mobile, moving against Jim's with jittery eagerness. His hands are small and soft, and Jim isn't thinking about Barbara, and he's not thinking about Lesley, either.  
After a while, he actually isn't. When he's laying Oswald down across Fish Mooney's desk, absently running his hands over his body, feeling all of his angles. He's nothing but angles.  
“Not there,” Oswald gasps when Jim touches- where did he touch him?  
“Where?”  
“Not my knee.”  
“Oh, right. I'm sorry.”  
“It's okay. It just hurts when I'm on it too long.”  
“I'm sorry I made you stand. I should have-”  
“No,” Oswald laughs, gives him this tender look that twists something in Jim so hard that a wave of nausea halts his breath, “It was worth it. It was great.”  
No. This is too much. “I didn't really do anything.”  
Oswald frowns. “You did everything. What else is there?”  
Oh, Jesus. There are so many questions he could ask, but fucked if he wants to. “Nothing. Don't worry about it.”  
Before Oswald can say anything else, Jim kisses him again. Lets him move a hand down between them, touch Jim through his clothes.  
“Let me...” Oswald murmurs, unbuttons his pants, frowns, turns his wrist and unzips them. Looks at Jim from under his eyelashes, quizzical, vexed: “What did you mean before...”  
“Nothing,” he looks down, “How do you like it? Show me.”  
“Oh.” Then, the son of a bitch blushes, pale red across the crowns of his cheekbones.  
And Jim. He doesn't- This isn't something he- What the fuck is going on, here?  
Before he's aware of it, he's touching Oswald's cheek, rubbing his thumb across the flush, then down to Oswald's lips, pressing against the lower until Oswald opens his mouth and sucks. Looks into Jim's eyes as he licks the pad of his thumb, showing the point of his tongue.  
At least part of this is an act. Which part, Jim doesn't know. The pieces are all assembling themselves like in a dream about some fucked-up fantasy that he didn't even know he had. The play-acting, included. Without the lie- whatever the lie actually is- something to uncover and needle himself with, he knows he would have left a long time ago. And if Oswald is fucked-up for wanting to pretend to be a virgin or a whore, or both, what does it make Jim that he's about ready to come in his fucking pants?  
“Do you know what I want?” Jim asks.  
“What?”  
“I want the truth.”  
“The truth?” Oswald laughs, ebulliently.  
“About you.”  
Oswald shakes his head. “No, you don't. I know what you want,” he whispers, looks into Jim's eyes, licks a long stripe down his palm, and wraps his hand around Jim's cock. “Maybe I was wrong, before: maybe you like not knowing anything about me,” Oswald says against his ear, punctuating it with the excruciating motion of his wrist, “Except that you own me, because you saved me. Now, you're a part of me, and I'm a part of you. That's all you need.”  
He's so fucking hot and tight on the inside that all of this is sounding good to him, and he moves away Oswald's hand, picks himself up. “Sit- in the chair.”  
With a little wiggle, Oswald plunks down in Fish's chair, smiles and looks up at him. Closes, opens his eyes as Jim places his hand under Oswald's chin. Opens his mouth, and lets Jim inside.  
The truth is that his is obviously not the first cock Oswald's sucked, but that just draws in more questions, shadows cut from the dark space around them, and Jim is so, so fucking tired of asking, and of everything else. And Oswald must know, because he pulls back a little, kisses him, licks him, wraps his hand around and gives him a long, gentle twist before taking him in again, deep.  
The only place Jim Gordon is going is straight to hell.  
He comes in Oswald's mouth, one hand in Oswald's hair and the other over his own eyes. For a moment, they stay still like that: Jim's breathing heavily, can't bring himself to move, and he definitely can't look, not yet. Slowly, he pulls out, moves back, watches as Oswald, frowning, opens a drawer of the desk and spits into it. With a giggle, he closes the drawer.  
“It's your desk, now,” is all Jim can think to say, putting his cock away and zipping up his pants.  
Oswald makes a face, prissy and nasty, says acidly, “It's not my style. I'm having the office redecorated.”  
“I have to go,” Jim says, once again, and an hour too fucking late.  
“I know,” Oswald sighs, “But you'll be back.”  
It's useless to argue with a madman, but Jim still snaps, “No, I won't.”  
“You will,” Oswald insists, kicks his legs, “You saved my life. That means it's your life, too, now,” he smiles, glacially cold and infernally hot, both, “And if it's your life, then you have no choice but to live it.”


End file.
